DEFEATED
This ugly white
tank top
is stretched too
thin
over a gut that is too
full of crap
after a day of bad
choices.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Day 24 - Blank (poem)
Even in the midst of a blackout I got my daily writing done :-)
BLANK
The power
is out. The internet
down. I’ve nothing
to offer today. No
one will see
it.
BLANK
The power
is out. The internet
down. I’ve nothing
to offer today. No
one will see
it.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Day 23 - Lazy? (poem)
LAZY?
A lilypad
floats,
aimless
but the frog
that jumps on it
may
discover
a crocodile
underneath
A lilypad
floats,
aimless
but the frog
that jumps on it
may
discover
a crocodile
underneath
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Day 22 - Peace (poem)
PEACE
A butterfly hops
from flower to flower.
Hungry
but
not concerned
for it.
A butterfly hops
from flower to flower.
Hungry
but
not concerned
for it.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Day 21 - Rage (poem)
RAGE
The white
wolf stands frozen
against the howling
wind.
Jaw
clenched, wishing
for warmth to unleash
the inner strength, desperate
to feed.
Blood drips
from his own mouth, dreaming
of his prey dying
well.
The white
wolf stands frozen
against the howling
wind.
Jaw
clenched, wishing
for warmth to unleash
the inner strength, desperate
to feed.
Blood drips
from his own mouth, dreaming
of his prey dying
well.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Day 20 - Vapors (novel chunk)
It's late.
Mickelson started from his sleep. He’d dreamed he was in the land across the vapors, and that his presence had somehow saved the mysterious figure he’d caught glimpses of all these years. It all seemed so important, yet he could barely keep his mind on the dream. He should write down what he remembered of it, questions that he had, but instead he felt the comfortable beckoning of Julie’s body pull him back towards slumber. If it was so damn important, surely he’d recall it in the morning.
Mickelson started from his sleep. He’d dreamed he was in the land across the vapors, and that his presence had somehow saved the mysterious figure he’d caught glimpses of all these years. It all seemed so important, yet he could barely keep his mind on the dream. He should write down what he remembered of it, questions that he had, but instead he felt the comfortable beckoning of Julie’s body pull him back towards slumber. If it was so damn important, surely he’d recall it in the morning.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Day 19 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Steeled for the end, and resolute in the goal to make this desert into an ocean of blood before he fell, Zoba stood at the ready, Calibos unsheathed and starving for combat. But though he was ready to meet his fate, the throng surrounding him did not advance. In fact, they suddenly seemed unsure. Until they dropped to their knees. The assault of flesh turned into an ebb tide of docile creatures, heads bowed.
Confusion filled Zoba for the first time in his life. Truly unsure of what was happening. And then he looked up, and saw the impossible. An image of the one he recognized from across the Chasm floated in the air above him. Serene. Eyes closed. Not even aware some would say.
But the Velchurians seemed to know what this meant. The portent was as potent as it was obscure, but clearly this primitive tribe of plains dwellers were versed in the dark prophecies. Few Alycians trafficked in that forbidden knowledge, but they were not bound by the same rules as most. The only reason that Zoba had any inkling what this spoke to was because his role as Protector of Alycia required that he be versed in all possible threats to the realm. But even a mind as advance as his was overwhelmed by the idea of what this indicated was to come. He also fell to his knees.
At that moment the vision in the sky blinked out. Zoba heard a murmuring around and looked up to see the crowd before him parting. A Velchurian woman approached, regal in gait and taut as a bow. She was adorned like royalty, but moved like a warrior. Even Zoba couldn’t help but be impressed as she drew near and he saw her height nearly equaled his own.
“My name is Fleur Ondine,” she said. “I am Princess of the Plains and I claim you as my husband.”
Zoba looked around, confused as to this turn of events, then turned his gaze back to her as she knocked him out with an ornate club.
Confusion filled Zoba for the first time in his life. Truly unsure of what was happening. And then he looked up, and saw the impossible. An image of the one he recognized from across the Chasm floated in the air above him. Serene. Eyes closed. Not even aware some would say.
But the Velchurians seemed to know what this meant. The portent was as potent as it was obscure, but clearly this primitive tribe of plains dwellers were versed in the dark prophecies. Few Alycians trafficked in that forbidden knowledge, but they were not bound by the same rules as most. The only reason that Zoba had any inkling what this spoke to was because his role as Protector of Alycia required that he be versed in all possible threats to the realm. But even a mind as advance as his was overwhelmed by the idea of what this indicated was to come. He also fell to his knees.
At that moment the vision in the sky blinked out. Zoba heard a murmuring around and looked up to see the crowd before him parting. A Velchurian woman approached, regal in gait and taut as a bow. She was adorned like royalty, but moved like a warrior. Even Zoba couldn’t help but be impressed as she drew near and he saw her height nearly equaled his own.
“My name is Fleur Ondine,” she said. “I am Princess of the Plains and I claim you as my husband.”
Zoba looked around, confused as to this turn of events, then turned his gaze back to her as she knocked him out with an ornate club.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Day 18 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Battle! Not so easy to write combat scenes, and that's something I'm going to have to find a way to deal with because there are going to be some epic battles by the time this whole thing is complete.
Zoba looked out over the hoard and was struck by how dissimilar they looked to the rest of the denizens of Alycia. Where Zoba was tall, thickly muscled with skin that looked too smooth to have ever known combat, coloring too golden to seem worldly, these creatures before him looked desperate. Hunger vibrated in the air around them. At first glance they might be called skinny, but that would be a deadly misunderstanding. Wiry, dangerous, their movement alternated easily between standing, coiled, and crawling, like creatures well used to finding hiding spaces quickly. But there was no cowering, no fear. This lot wanted blood.
Taking a breath, he centered himself so quickly one not trained to look for it would have no idea, but these Velchurians were well familiar with the martial approach of the rest of Alycia. They attacked.
As with any overwhelming combat situation, Zoba had no option but to move, and move fast. He worked towards spaces and moved in circles, his focus on clearing space rather than striking. Until he could reach Calibos there was nothing to do but try and survive this furious onslaught. He was denied a direct line however, unless he wanted to meet death head on. But despite the overwhelming odds he did have some advantages. Only so many bodies could get near him at one time, so he only had to deal with those closest to him. The ever present crush also made striking him full force difficult, so while the Velchurians searched for a killing stroke, he had an easier time using evasion to slowly work his way closer and closer to his weapon.
If any of the masters of martial arts across The Split watched Zoba spin his way through this terrifying press of bodies they would recognize his movement as similar to the principles of Baguazhang. However, to Zoba he thought of it merely as Turning. He kept moving, kept evading, occasionally striking. He had no idea if he had laid any of his opponents down or not, but knew that while his conditioning was sustaining him for now, it was not inexhaustible against a force like this.
But then he saw it, a glimpse of the cool blue blade that felt as much a part of him as his own hand. With renewed vigor he continued his bloody journey, circling, sweeping, finding the brief window between two attackers, or spinning his way around, but always with his attention fixed to the spot where he could retrieve his weapon.
And then he was there, a Velchurian attempting to wield Calibos, but in truth less than 5 beings in Alycia possessed the strength to lift the behemoth. With a quickness that would seem cruel or kind depending on the viewers prejudice, Zoba dispatched the would be sword stealer with a blow to the neck and finally felt complete. Ready for true battle.
In the first few seconds after Calibos returned to his hand Zoba had cut down 20 Velchurians. The hoard continued to press and within the space of minutes the land that had been so dusty when he crashed was now muted with blood. He had carved himself some breathing room, his attackers realizing that a direct assault on him was sure to end in twice as many bodies, all half their original size. Seizing the opportunity Zoba looked for high ground and made his way toward a nearby hilltop.
He ascended, his muscles primed, Calibos glowing in the approaching moonlight. As his feet found purchase at the top he felt a surge of power, ready and able to face whatever this band of scavengers had at the ready. Until he looked out across the plains.
Zoba saw not hundreds ,not thousands, but tens of thousands of Velchurians, all focused on him. As far as the eye could see, the land undulated with bodies and bloodlust. He saw inevitability. He saw death. He knew that for the first time in his existence he had failed.
Zoba looked out over the hoard and was struck by how dissimilar they looked to the rest of the denizens of Alycia. Where Zoba was tall, thickly muscled with skin that looked too smooth to have ever known combat, coloring too golden to seem worldly, these creatures before him looked desperate. Hunger vibrated in the air around them. At first glance they might be called skinny, but that would be a deadly misunderstanding. Wiry, dangerous, their movement alternated easily between standing, coiled, and crawling, like creatures well used to finding hiding spaces quickly. But there was no cowering, no fear. This lot wanted blood.
Taking a breath, he centered himself so quickly one not trained to look for it would have no idea, but these Velchurians were well familiar with the martial approach of the rest of Alycia. They attacked.
As with any overwhelming combat situation, Zoba had no option but to move, and move fast. He worked towards spaces and moved in circles, his focus on clearing space rather than striking. Until he could reach Calibos there was nothing to do but try and survive this furious onslaught. He was denied a direct line however, unless he wanted to meet death head on. But despite the overwhelming odds he did have some advantages. Only so many bodies could get near him at one time, so he only had to deal with those closest to him. The ever present crush also made striking him full force difficult, so while the Velchurians searched for a killing stroke, he had an easier time using evasion to slowly work his way closer and closer to his weapon.
If any of the masters of martial arts across The Split watched Zoba spin his way through this terrifying press of bodies they would recognize his movement as similar to the principles of Baguazhang. However, to Zoba he thought of it merely as Turning. He kept moving, kept evading, occasionally striking. He had no idea if he had laid any of his opponents down or not, but knew that while his conditioning was sustaining him for now, it was not inexhaustible against a force like this.
But then he saw it, a glimpse of the cool blue blade that felt as much a part of him as his own hand. With renewed vigor he continued his bloody journey, circling, sweeping, finding the brief window between two attackers, or spinning his way around, but always with his attention fixed to the spot where he could retrieve his weapon.
And then he was there, a Velchurian attempting to wield Calibos, but in truth less than 5 beings in Alycia possessed the strength to lift the behemoth. With a quickness that would seem cruel or kind depending on the viewers prejudice, Zoba dispatched the would be sword stealer with a blow to the neck and finally felt complete. Ready for true battle.
In the first few seconds after Calibos returned to his hand Zoba had cut down 20 Velchurians. The hoard continued to press and within the space of minutes the land that had been so dusty when he crashed was now muted with blood. He had carved himself some breathing room, his attackers realizing that a direct assault on him was sure to end in twice as many bodies, all half their original size. Seizing the opportunity Zoba looked for high ground and made his way toward a nearby hilltop.
He ascended, his muscles primed, Calibos glowing in the approaching moonlight. As his feet found purchase at the top he felt a surge of power, ready and able to face whatever this band of scavengers had at the ready. Until he looked out across the plains.
Zoba saw not hundreds ,not thousands, but tens of thousands of Velchurians, all focused on him. As far as the eye could see, the land undulated with bodies and bloodlust. He saw inevitability. He saw death. He knew that for the first time in his existence he had failed.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Day 17 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Unsheathing his broadsword, an ornate behemoth named Calibos, Zoba quickly severed the remaining wing from the body of his sun glider, and with inhuman quickness leapt for the shimmering wing as it floated away from the craft, returning Calibos to its home on his back as he grabbed each end of the wing and pulled it into use as a makeshift parachute.
Since glider’s were not designed to travel more than 100 feet clear of the ground, Zoba only needed this slight delay in his speedy descent to allow himself to find a spot to land. A spanse of soft sand beckoned him vs. the surrounding rock. With his senses primed Zoba released the wing 10 feet from the ground, dropping Calibos from his back, and angled himself to roll upon impact. His feet struck first, and then with an instinctual reaction honed through years of training he leapt forward, tucking his body and somersaulting forward near 50 yards until his momentum finally slowed.
He stood quickly, instantly aware that he was not alone, and through shifting sands saw the bodies of 100 or more Velchurians rise from the dust. To reclaim Calibos he would have to go through them. The sharp cast of their eager smiles indicated they relished his effort.
Since glider’s were not designed to travel more than 100 feet clear of the ground, Zoba only needed this slight delay in his speedy descent to allow himself to find a spot to land. A spanse of soft sand beckoned him vs. the surrounding rock. With his senses primed Zoba released the wing 10 feet from the ground, dropping Calibos from his back, and angled himself to roll upon impact. His feet struck first, and then with an instinctual reaction honed through years of training he leapt forward, tucking his body and somersaulting forward near 50 yards until his momentum finally slowed.
He stood quickly, instantly aware that he was not alone, and through shifting sands saw the bodies of 100 or more Velchurians rise from the dust. To reclaim Calibos he would have to go through them. The sharp cast of their eager smiles indicated they relished his effort.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Day 16 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Today we come back to a character that has so far only been hinted at - Zoba. While I'll not give any hints as to his place in the overall story I'm telling, it is important. One thing that the reader is stuck with as this first draft progresses is that the timing and balance of how the story unfolds is unpolished. The main content is developing as I'd like, but there will certainly be elements of the story that get moved around for purposes of clarity once I edit this first draft. Also worth noting, for those on this journey with me who may be concerned about my profession of being unsure where this is all going, fear not. You will not be abandoned. I have a pretty clear idea of where it's all going and how to get there now. No guarantees that you'll like the end result, but there is indeed a plan :-)
Chapter 4
Zoba sped across the Plains of Velchuria. It was one of the few lands in Alycia that one could not count on safe passage. This was a peaceful world and the inhabitants had no designs on gain through the pain or misfortune of others. For the most part.
A remnant of the Great Split was a category of muddled souls who had not fully split and were forever bound in a twilight of confusion and hatred, fueled by the fact that they lacked the purity of most Alycians. Zoba felt sympathy for their plight, and thus unlike some Alycians who felt hunting down the Velchurians for sport was a responsibility to the world they lived in, steered clear of their lands and did his best to let them be. But he knew that those foolish enough to enter the Plains could not count on the same allowance from the Velchurians. Targeted and hunted for so long, they had developed a keen sense of survival, mixed with a brutality that was largely absent from this world. A lone traveler, even one as formidable as Zoba, could easily find himself in trouble fast.
He checked the tank of his sun glider again. It’s wings gold and glittering like a dragonfly, Zoba sat atop the center on a shimmering saddle, appearing to float between the wings as finely spun gossamer threads were what connected it all. The tank was a small back up, capable of only a few minutes flight past the sun’s setting. Traveling at night was not done except in emergencies in Alycia. After all, righteous work was done in full view of the world, not cloaked in darkness.
Unfortunately Zoba needed to consult with The Order as soon as possible, and that meant taking risks. The path across the Plains would get him to the Kingdom of the Order a full three days faster than traversing the Golden Ring. But it also meant he’d be pushing right up against sun set to make it across. As long as nothing went wrong he would have a few minutes to spare. If anything did go wrong though, well, those were thoughts best left alone. This was not a journey in which he could afford to contemplate failure.
Sadly that was ripped out of his control as a black wisp of smoke suddenly replaced the left side wing that had so recently allowed him to dance across the sky. There was no time to figure out what had happened to his beautiful and trusted craft. Now Zoba saw nothing but a fast approaching ground, dusty and desolate, as night drew near and his ability to escape these deadly plains without incident was extinguished. A solitary thought overtook his mind. Survive. He could figure out what to do next if he was lucky enough to have that option.
Chapter 4
Zoba sped across the Plains of Velchuria. It was one of the few lands in Alycia that one could not count on safe passage. This was a peaceful world and the inhabitants had no designs on gain through the pain or misfortune of others. For the most part.
A remnant of the Great Split was a category of muddled souls who had not fully split and were forever bound in a twilight of confusion and hatred, fueled by the fact that they lacked the purity of most Alycians. Zoba felt sympathy for their plight, and thus unlike some Alycians who felt hunting down the Velchurians for sport was a responsibility to the world they lived in, steered clear of their lands and did his best to let them be. But he knew that those foolish enough to enter the Plains could not count on the same allowance from the Velchurians. Targeted and hunted for so long, they had developed a keen sense of survival, mixed with a brutality that was largely absent from this world. A lone traveler, even one as formidable as Zoba, could easily find himself in trouble fast.
He checked the tank of his sun glider again. It’s wings gold and glittering like a dragonfly, Zoba sat atop the center on a shimmering saddle, appearing to float between the wings as finely spun gossamer threads were what connected it all. The tank was a small back up, capable of only a few minutes flight past the sun’s setting. Traveling at night was not done except in emergencies in Alycia. After all, righteous work was done in full view of the world, not cloaked in darkness.
Unfortunately Zoba needed to consult with The Order as soon as possible, and that meant taking risks. The path across the Plains would get him to the Kingdom of the Order a full three days faster than traversing the Golden Ring. But it also meant he’d be pushing right up against sun set to make it across. As long as nothing went wrong he would have a few minutes to spare. If anything did go wrong though, well, those were thoughts best left alone. This was not a journey in which he could afford to contemplate failure.
Sadly that was ripped out of his control as a black wisp of smoke suddenly replaced the left side wing that had so recently allowed him to dance across the sky. There was no time to figure out what had happened to his beautiful and trusted craft. Now Zoba saw nothing but a fast approaching ground, dusty and desolate, as night drew near and his ability to escape these deadly plains without incident was extinguished. A solitary thought overtook his mind. Survive. He could figure out what to do next if he was lucky enough to have that option.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Day 15 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Julie looked up with tear stained eyes and saw Mick standing there. He moved to her and pulled her to her feet, embracing her and enveloping her with love. Her sobbing increased in intensity at this show of understanding. Mick didn’t offer platitudes, or forgiveness.
He simply said, “I understand.”
Julie smiled at the words and said, “Thank you.”
The she was gone. The apartment, the blood, the woman who caused it, all gone in an instant, replaced by what Mick knew instinctively was the real Julie. At least the Julie he was looking for.
“If you keep banishing all the memories that have fucked me up then there’s not going to be any me left.”
Mick crushed her to him, overwhelmed with relief that he’d found her. That she wasn’t dead, or irretrievable.
“I didn’t know how to find you.”
“I know,” she said. “And I’m grateful. You’ve given me a great gift, and I am yours forever.”
As they spoke Mick could sense they were reversing the journey inward. Could feel a rushing movement towards the outside world. And in the blink of an eye he was back in himself, back in his apartment, looking down at a fully conscious and present Julie with that old look of bemused chaos in her eyes. But with a little something different. She looked peaceful. As though she’d come to grips with her place in the world.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said.
“No kidding. But first you’re going to have to fuck me. I’m wound up tighter than a Salem witch.”
Mick smiled. “I can do that.”
He simply said, “I understand.”
Julie smiled at the words and said, “Thank you.”
The she was gone. The apartment, the blood, the woman who caused it, all gone in an instant, replaced by what Mick knew instinctively was the real Julie. At least the Julie he was looking for.
“If you keep banishing all the memories that have fucked me up then there’s not going to be any me left.”
Mick crushed her to him, overwhelmed with relief that he’d found her. That she wasn’t dead, or irretrievable.
“I didn’t know how to find you.”
“I know,” she said. “And I’m grateful. You’ve given me a great gift, and I am yours forever.”
As they spoke Mick could sense they were reversing the journey inward. Could feel a rushing movement towards the outside world. And in the blink of an eye he was back in himself, back in his apartment, looking down at a fully conscious and present Julie with that old look of bemused chaos in her eyes. But with a little something different. She looked peaceful. As though she’d come to grips with her place in the world.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said.
“No kidding. But first you’re going to have to fuck me. I’m wound up tighter than a Salem witch.”
Mick smiled. “I can do that.”
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Day 14 - Vapors (novel chunk)
The next room he encountered was a more fully realized scene from Julie’s life. She was in her apartment, a place that Mick himself had visited on occasion, looking every bit a grown woman now. A knock at her door drew both of their attentions. Mick hung back while Julie went to open the door. He was shocked when she returned with Uncle Joe.
“Was surprised to get your call,” Joe said.
“Well, I’ve missed you.”
Mick could see Julie putting on her coquettish attitude, something that was very effective at seduction, but was always a lie. She used it almost like breathing to manipulate men, and he thought part of the reason she liked him is that he wasn’t so entranced by her pussy that he wouldn’t call her on her bullshit. The relationship was reciprocal as well, since Mick certainly had his share of lies and head games that had almost morphed into a part of his personality. Having a hot woman who saw right through him was rare, and enticing.
Uncle Joe closed on Julie surprisingly quickly for a seemingly out of shape man.
\ “Why don’t you show me little girl.”
“Whoa. Slow down. We’ll get to that.”
“We’ll get to that. We’ll get to that? Bitch I said show me!” Joe roared.
Just as quickly Julie was on the floor after a brutal, full force backslap from Joe. He then pulled his belt loose and began to beat her with it mercilessly.
“You’ve turned into quite the uppity cunt haven’t you?”
Julie covered her head with her arms as the blows rained down upon her. Mick could hear her sobbing into the floorboards. His heart broke for her, but he could not change this scene that had already happened.
“Good God,” Joe said. “You always did cry pretty.”
Julie looked up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now c‘mere.”
Julie crawled over to Joe, who had pulled down his pants.
“You know what to do,” he said.
“Yes. I do, Uncle Joe.”
Quicker than Mick had ever seen her move, Julie pulled a gleaming kitchen knife from under the sofa and lopped off Uncle Joe’s most offensive appendage. The effect was instantaneous. A shower of blood drenched the room. Mick was shocked at the sudden violence and the crimson spray that threatened to paint the entire room like an overzealous horror film.
Joe tried desperately to stop the tide, but to no avail. And by the time he realized he was done, by the time he thought to turn from what he’d lost, to vengeance upon she who had done this, he no longer had the strength to strike. He simply collapsed to the floor, whimpering, pathetic. A semi-corpulent gelded heap. It was a vicious end, but one that guaranteed this man would never hurt another woman.
“Was surprised to get your call,” Joe said.
“Well, I’ve missed you.”
Mick could see Julie putting on her coquettish attitude, something that was very effective at seduction, but was always a lie. She used it almost like breathing to manipulate men, and he thought part of the reason she liked him is that he wasn’t so entranced by her pussy that he wouldn’t call her on her bullshit. The relationship was reciprocal as well, since Mick certainly had his share of lies and head games that had almost morphed into a part of his personality. Having a hot woman who saw right through him was rare, and enticing.
Uncle Joe closed on Julie surprisingly quickly for a seemingly out of shape man.
\ “Why don’t you show me little girl.”
“Whoa. Slow down. We’ll get to that.”
“We’ll get to that. We’ll get to that? Bitch I said show me!” Joe roared.
Just as quickly Julie was on the floor after a brutal, full force backslap from Joe. He then pulled his belt loose and began to beat her with it mercilessly.
“You’ve turned into quite the uppity cunt haven’t you?”
Julie covered her head with her arms as the blows rained down upon her. Mick could hear her sobbing into the floorboards. His heart broke for her, but he could not change this scene that had already happened.
“Good God,” Joe said. “You always did cry pretty.”
Julie looked up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now c‘mere.”
Julie crawled over to Joe, who had pulled down his pants.
“You know what to do,” he said.
“Yes. I do, Uncle Joe.”
Quicker than Mick had ever seen her move, Julie pulled a gleaming kitchen knife from under the sofa and lopped off Uncle Joe’s most offensive appendage. The effect was instantaneous. A shower of blood drenched the room. Mick was shocked at the sudden violence and the crimson spray that threatened to paint the entire room like an overzealous horror film.
Joe tried desperately to stop the tide, but to no avail. And by the time he realized he was done, by the time he thought to turn from what he’d lost, to vengeance upon she who had done this, he no longer had the strength to strike. He simply collapsed to the floor, whimpering, pathetic. A semi-corpulent gelded heap. It was a vicious end, but one that guaranteed this man would never hurt another woman.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Day 13 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Mick prepared to move on, but felt a wave of compassion for the young woman, barely more than a child, in front of him. He approached, softly, wanting to be near her for comfort even though his presence would not be noted.
But as he drew closer something unexpected happened. Julie looked up, and Mick felt a sensation akin to a shiver as she seemed to stare straight at him. She didn’t say anything to acknowledge him, but he saw, almost unbelievably, a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
Overcome by gratitude that such a dark scene could brighten so unexpectedly, Mick reached out and was struck with joy when his touch landed lightly, but solidly on her shoulder. The girl closed her eyes at the contact. Rolling with the turn of events, Mick let all the pure, ecstatic energy he felt flow into the girl, willing her to be strong, to never let the horrible memory he had just witnessed diminish her in any way.
She rose, silently, and suddenly embraced him. The hug carrying with it a certain grace. She then slowly faded away, and he knew that he had helped her heal from a terrible black scar that had seared her existence since it happened.
Mick saw a doorway at the other side of the room and stepped through. He was still unsure how he should proceed, but moved now with the confidence that being here was a positive thing.
But as he drew closer something unexpected happened. Julie looked up, and Mick felt a sensation akin to a shiver as she seemed to stare straight at him. She didn’t say anything to acknowledge him, but he saw, almost unbelievably, a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
Overcome by gratitude that such a dark scene could brighten so unexpectedly, Mick reached out and was struck with joy when his touch landed lightly, but solidly on her shoulder. The girl closed her eyes at the contact. Rolling with the turn of events, Mick let all the pure, ecstatic energy he felt flow into the girl, willing her to be strong, to never let the horrible memory he had just witnessed diminish her in any way.
She rose, silently, and suddenly embraced him. The hug carrying with it a certain grace. She then slowly faded away, and he knew that he had helped her heal from a terrible black scar that had seared her existence since it happened.
Mick saw a doorway at the other side of the room and stepped through. He was still unsure how he should proceed, but moved now with the confidence that being here was a positive thing.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Day 12 - Vapors (novel chunk)
A few steps on he found a door that seemed to harbor the weeping. Curious and thankful to have found something Mick opened the door. The room was surprisingly bright, and in the middle of it sat a young girl, no more than 12 at the most, head in her hands. Overcome with a sense of concern for her, Mick was about to approach her when a cruel, male voice caught his attention.
“Quit yer fuckin’ bellyaching’ you little bitch. You keep cryin’ like that and yer mom’s gonna ask questions. Then I gots to beat the both of ya. You want that?”
The girl and Mick’s eyes turned toward the voice, bellowing out of a tomato of a man, red-faced and sweaty from exertion.
“Dunno what yer cryin’ ‘bout anyway. Yer actually good at that. Usin’ them three holes ya got is all a girls good for in this world, and you got some talent girl. That should make ya happy.”
Feeling sick to his stomach Mick looked back at the girl and felt his breath catch. Though the years were peeled back and she lacked the stony exterior he was so familiar with, this was Julie, open and exposed like he’d never seen. She looked lost, scared, unsure, but then he saw a change in her eyes. She wiped away the tears and stood up. When the barrel of a man walked over to her, Mick saw her suppress a shiver, but she didn’t flinch when the man touched her.
“Yeah, girl. That’s better. I know ya liked it. No shame in doing what nature made ya for.”
Mick launched himself at the bastard with every intent of pummeling the man to the ground, but instead found himself on the other side of the room, seeming to have passed right through the letch’s body. He looked back and saw a familiar attitude possess Julie’s body.
“You’re right Uncle Joe. I’m glad you were my first.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, who turned and left the room. Looking at Julie now, Mick would have assumed she was a sassy, hardened kid who left childish things behind long ago. Right up to the point where she threw up and collapsed in tears again.
“Quit yer fuckin’ bellyaching’ you little bitch. You keep cryin’ like that and yer mom’s gonna ask questions. Then I gots to beat the both of ya. You want that?”
The girl and Mick’s eyes turned toward the voice, bellowing out of a tomato of a man, red-faced and sweaty from exertion.
“Dunno what yer cryin’ ‘bout anyway. Yer actually good at that. Usin’ them three holes ya got is all a girls good for in this world, and you got some talent girl. That should make ya happy.”
Feeling sick to his stomach Mick looked back at the girl and felt his breath catch. Though the years were peeled back and she lacked the stony exterior he was so familiar with, this was Julie, open and exposed like he’d never seen. She looked lost, scared, unsure, but then he saw a change in her eyes. She wiped away the tears and stood up. When the barrel of a man walked over to her, Mick saw her suppress a shiver, but she didn’t flinch when the man touched her.
“Yeah, girl. That’s better. I know ya liked it. No shame in doing what nature made ya for.”
Mick launched himself at the bastard with every intent of pummeling the man to the ground, but instead found himself on the other side of the room, seeming to have passed right through the letch’s body. He looked back and saw a familiar attitude possess Julie’s body.
“You’re right Uncle Joe. I’m glad you were my first.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, who turned and left the room. Looking at Julie now, Mick would have assumed she was a sassy, hardened kid who left childish things behind long ago. Right up to the point where she threw up and collapsed in tears again.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Day 11 - Lazy Writer's Limerick
Lazy Writer's Limerick
There once was a writer named Matt
Who today lazed around on his ass
His back up against it
He knocked out this limerick
And called it his daily dispatch.
There once was a writer named Matt
Who today lazed around on his ass
His back up against it
He knocked out this limerick
And called it his daily dispatch.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Day 10 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Mick was getting used to feeling like time was malleable after recent events, but his feet felt like they had been walking for hours, and while the initial fear and trepidation he felt traipsing about in Julie’s body was intense, it had now been replaced by a simple desire for a chair, or a beer. Preferably both. He’d thought about leaving her body for a break and then returning to the task at hand, but he’d encountered two problems there.
He wasn’t at all sure he could return to where he’d already gotten, which would be a colossal waste of time, and more importantly, he couldn’t figure out how to get out. So the only real option was to continue.
And truthfully it wasn’t that he hadn’t found anything, it was that he hadn’t found anything useful. He’d passed what appeared to be rooms filled mirrors, filled with clothes, filled with makeup, booze, balloons and sex toys. As near as he could figure, all these rooms were just surface crap. A toolbox of stuff for Julie to present to the outside world, but nothing that got at the heart of who she was. Clearly she was equipped to play many roles, most of them with a healthy streak of sluttiness and alcoholism. But he’d gotten awfully deep and hadn’t yet found any insight or help with who she really was. And if he was to find where her mind, her soul, whatever locus of existence made her, her, that’s what he needed to seek out.
Somebody was crying, and while like most men Mick hated tears, at least it was something different than the endless hallways made up of nothing useful that he’d been traversing.
He wasn’t at all sure he could return to where he’d already gotten, which would be a colossal waste of time, and more importantly, he couldn’t figure out how to get out. So the only real option was to continue.
And truthfully it wasn’t that he hadn’t found anything, it was that he hadn’t found anything useful. He’d passed what appeared to be rooms filled mirrors, filled with clothes, filled with makeup, booze, balloons and sex toys. As near as he could figure, all these rooms were just surface crap. A toolbox of stuff for Julie to present to the outside world, but nothing that got at the heart of who she was. Clearly she was equipped to play many roles, most of them with a healthy streak of sluttiness and alcoholism. But he’d gotten awfully deep and hadn’t yet found any insight or help with who she really was. And if he was to find where her mind, her soul, whatever locus of existence made her, her, that’s what he needed to seek out.
Somebody was crying, and while like most men Mick hated tears, at least it was something different than the endless hallways made up of nothing useful that he’d been traversing.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Day 9 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Got pushed up against time to go to work today, but got a very small amount of writing done. It sets up what will be a very important chapter, and the goal of this whole project isn't the amount I get done each day, but to make sure at least some writing is accomplished each day anyway :-)
Chapter 3
Mick felt like the women in THE DESCENT must have felt when they figured out that Juno had brought them to an unmapped cave system. Looking across the expanse of corridors that seemed to make up the inner life of Julie, he felt lost. If for no other reason than the inside was as startlingly empty as the outside. Mick wasn’t sure what to make of all that was going on, but one thing was sure. A lifeless body in his apartment could not help him in whatever he was supposed to accomplish.
But without Julie home, that’s exactly the situation he faced. So logically she must be in here somewhere. There might be a fallacy in his reasoning, but he could not handle being responsible for extinguishing his friend right now, so he didn’t look for holes in his supposition. He just clung to it like a life line.
Mick had always believed that the best way to keep yourself from freezing when you didn’t know what the hell to do was to do something, anything. Make a decision, act, and keep doing so until a solution presented itself. And so looking down a vast expanse of seemingly empty choices, he picked a hallway and started walking.
Chapter 3
Mick felt like the women in THE DESCENT must have felt when they figured out that Juno had brought them to an unmapped cave system. Looking across the expanse of corridors that seemed to make up the inner life of Julie, he felt lost. If for no other reason than the inside was as startlingly empty as the outside. Mick wasn’t sure what to make of all that was going on, but one thing was sure. A lifeless body in his apartment could not help him in whatever he was supposed to accomplish.
But without Julie home, that’s exactly the situation he faced. So logically she must be in here somewhere. There might be a fallacy in his reasoning, but he could not handle being responsible for extinguishing his friend right now, so he didn’t look for holes in his supposition. He just clung to it like a life line.
Mick had always believed that the best way to keep yourself from freezing when you didn’t know what the hell to do was to do something, anything. Make a decision, act, and keep doing so until a solution presented itself. And so looking down a vast expanse of seemingly empty choices, he picked a hallway and started walking.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Day 8 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Was absolute torture getting this measly bit of writing done today.
Reginald looked across the ether and shook his head sadly. The journey before Mickelson and Julie was going to be many things, but easy wasn’t one of them. Hopefully they could find a way to come together over the coming weeks despite what was about to occur. If not, then all of them, the cosmos included, was doomed.
Mickelson snapped his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. His ceiling. No Reginald. No theater. No crazy body morphing. Just him. Home. And Julie.
Julie!
Mickelson sat up and found her where he’d seen her last, through the vapors, collapsed on his living room floor. Lifeless. It didn’t even look like she was breathing. He rushed over to her and checked her pulse. Weak, but there. Her color was bad though. Like stale puke, and her breathing was labored.
Fuck, not good.
A good hard shake didn’t rouse her, so Mick decided to go the slap route he had used her body to deliver to him. Light slap. No good. Harder slap. Still nothing. Finally he pulled back and delivered a blow that would have made Ike Turner proud. Mick felt sick to his stomach, and she still wasn’t waking up.
Frustrated he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. After a moment he realized he still felt the connection with her body. With just a thought he entered her. What he found was an enormous emptiness. He didn’t notice it when he’d taken her over the first time because he was too focused on how to puppet her. But there was a distinct lack of Julie in Julie. Which begged the question where the hell was she.
Reginald looked across the ether and shook his head sadly. The journey before Mickelson and Julie was going to be many things, but easy wasn’t one of them. Hopefully they could find a way to come together over the coming weeks despite what was about to occur. If not, then all of them, the cosmos included, was doomed.
Mickelson snapped his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. His ceiling. No Reginald. No theater. No crazy body morphing. Just him. Home. And Julie.
Julie!
Mickelson sat up and found her where he’d seen her last, through the vapors, collapsed on his living room floor. Lifeless. It didn’t even look like she was breathing. He rushed over to her and checked her pulse. Weak, but there. Her color was bad though. Like stale puke, and her breathing was labored.
Fuck, not good.
A good hard shake didn’t rouse her, so Mick decided to go the slap route he had used her body to deliver to him. Light slap. No good. Harder slap. Still nothing. Finally he pulled back and delivered a blow that would have made Ike Turner proud. Mick felt sick to his stomach, and she still wasn’t waking up.
Frustrated he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. After a moment he realized he still felt the connection with her body. With just a thought he entered her. What he found was an enormous emptiness. He didn’t notice it when he’d taken her over the first time because he was too focused on how to puppet her. But there was a distinct lack of Julie in Julie. Which begged the question where the hell was she.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Day 7 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Posting some of these chunks feels a little weird, because part of the process of developing and writing a novel is exploring. That means you are at times writing things that you know are just going to be character development that gets dropped, or changed around, or sometimes simply isn't that great. But it is all part of the process. And I did have more fun writing today than I thought I would at first. Discovering a character's personality is something that happens to some degree as you write them.
On the surface Alexandra DiBetta. looked as calm as always. Only the litter of discarded Jaeger shots and the forgotten, sweating Bud Light bottle in her left hand belied the turmoil within. Typically a low level grinder like her would not do well running a tab at the Casbar, a nook dropped below the main Casbah nightclub at The Taj, but she fucked the bartender on occasion so it wasn’t much of an issue.
Her thoughts were fixed on that one hand. That fold. She’d dumped quads. Quads! No matter how she looked at the hand she couldn’t think of any time that made sense. Sure, that guy had some sort of menace about him that she recognized was best avoided. And all of her danger signals started blaring as soon as he’d shoved on the river. It was either a huge, crazy bluff, or he had her beat.
He must have had her beat.
But the odds were astronomically against it. You just can’t fold in that spot she told herself. And so the inner conversation had gone for the last two hours, slowly getting more angry as the booze took hold. If Bartender Bill took her home tonight he was going to look the worse for wear tomorrow. When Alex got like this her lovers became scratching posts and punching bags as much as they became pleasures.
Or maybe tonight she would scratch an itch that she’d held at bay for almost a year now. Wander the desolate streets of late night Atlantic City, away from the boardwalk. Troll by the bus station and watch the unending stream of tour buses with church folk and sinners alike drawn by the casinos cheap deals and free play promos. That area of town looked like an abandoned sound stage for THE WIRE and carried the same requisite dangers.
She couldn’t go there too often, she stood out too much, but when the need arose, she could satisfy it with few questions out there, and feel vindicated that whatever she meted out to one foolish enough to pick her as a victim was well deserved. Yes. She ran her thumb along the cool edge of her straight razor, Lady. Smooth black handle adorned with a 50’s style pin-up, this was her Enola Gay.
Tonight she would definitely let it feed.
“Hey Alex, you coming over tonight.”
She looked up at Bill, eyes blurry. He was broad, golden, good looking and dumb enough to come with few complications. She liked how he fucked her, and she liked that he wasn’t jealous, or clingy, or stupid in the way that so many smarter men were when it came to women.
“Nevermind,” he said. “I need the sleep anyway. The last time you came over with that look in your eye I thought I was gonna have to go to the ER afterwards.” Bill laughed and let her be. He knew when he wasn’t wanted and didn’t take it personally. It was a rare and cherished quality.
“Nice fold earlier.”
Alex felt her senses light up as much at the voice behind her as the unwelcome hand on her shoulder. In her mind she had already swung an outside arc from the contact, landing lightly on her feet, trapping the man’s arm against his body as Lady slipped quietly across his cheek, opening it to the bone. Not enough to kill, but it would leave a Joker worthy scar that would remind him to mind his manners with a woman. But for now, she maintained control.
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Without invitation he slid onto the bar stool next to her, though she noted he did remove his hand from her.
“Looks like you know how to drink.”
“Look like you know how to state the obvious,” she responded.
A slight grin broke his face.
“I wonder if you would join me in my suite? I have a proposition for you.”
“And why the hell would I do that?”
“Well, I know you aren’t worried about me getting out of line because you’d happily cut me down with that little silver friend you’re fingering right now. And I’ll tell you what my hand was so you can stop wondering if you made correct fold.”
Alex regarded him for a moment before finishing her last shot and beer.
“Lead the way.”
On the surface Alexandra DiBetta. looked as calm as always. Only the litter of discarded Jaeger shots and the forgotten, sweating Bud Light bottle in her left hand belied the turmoil within. Typically a low level grinder like her would not do well running a tab at the Casbar, a nook dropped below the main Casbah nightclub at The Taj, but she fucked the bartender on occasion so it wasn’t much of an issue.
Her thoughts were fixed on that one hand. That fold. She’d dumped quads. Quads! No matter how she looked at the hand she couldn’t think of any time that made sense. Sure, that guy had some sort of menace about him that she recognized was best avoided. And all of her danger signals started blaring as soon as he’d shoved on the river. It was either a huge, crazy bluff, or he had her beat.
He must have had her beat.
But the odds were astronomically against it. You just can’t fold in that spot she told herself. And so the inner conversation had gone for the last two hours, slowly getting more angry as the booze took hold. If Bartender Bill took her home tonight he was going to look the worse for wear tomorrow. When Alex got like this her lovers became scratching posts and punching bags as much as they became pleasures.
Or maybe tonight she would scratch an itch that she’d held at bay for almost a year now. Wander the desolate streets of late night Atlantic City, away from the boardwalk. Troll by the bus station and watch the unending stream of tour buses with church folk and sinners alike drawn by the casinos cheap deals and free play promos. That area of town looked like an abandoned sound stage for THE WIRE and carried the same requisite dangers.
She couldn’t go there too often, she stood out too much, but when the need arose, she could satisfy it with few questions out there, and feel vindicated that whatever she meted out to one foolish enough to pick her as a victim was well deserved. Yes. She ran her thumb along the cool edge of her straight razor, Lady. Smooth black handle adorned with a 50’s style pin-up, this was her Enola Gay.
Tonight she would definitely let it feed.
“Hey Alex, you coming over tonight.”
She looked up at Bill, eyes blurry. He was broad, golden, good looking and dumb enough to come with few complications. She liked how he fucked her, and she liked that he wasn’t jealous, or clingy, or stupid in the way that so many smarter men were when it came to women.
“Nevermind,” he said. “I need the sleep anyway. The last time you came over with that look in your eye I thought I was gonna have to go to the ER afterwards.” Bill laughed and let her be. He knew when he wasn’t wanted and didn’t take it personally. It was a rare and cherished quality.
“Nice fold earlier.”
Alex felt her senses light up as much at the voice behind her as the unwelcome hand on her shoulder. In her mind she had already swung an outside arc from the contact, landing lightly on her feet, trapping the man’s arm against his body as Lady slipped quietly across his cheek, opening it to the bone. Not enough to kill, but it would leave a Joker worthy scar that would remind him to mind his manners with a woman. But for now, she maintained control.
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Without invitation he slid onto the bar stool next to her, though she noted he did remove his hand from her.
“Looks like you know how to drink.”
“Look like you know how to state the obvious,” she responded.
A slight grin broke his face.
“I wonder if you would join me in my suite? I have a proposition for you.”
“And why the hell would I do that?”
“Well, I know you aren’t worried about me getting out of line because you’d happily cut me down with that little silver friend you’re fingering right now. And I’ll tell you what my hand was so you can stop wondering if you made correct fold.”
Alex regarded him for a moment before finishing her last shot and beer.
“Lead the way.”
Monday, June 11, 2012
Day 6 - Vapors (Novel chunk)
Not gonna lie, wasn't really feeling it today. Had to force myself to write. Part of the problem was that I actually knew what I was going to write today, so there wasn't a sense of discovery. I had this chunk in my head, and it felt more like dictation than anything else getting it down. a lot of what I'm writing is exploratory, which means much of it will be either tweaked or jettisoned when I get into the next draft, but write with no edits for now :-)
The Trump Taj Mahal. A perfect spot to begin. Phil would need an army for the coming fight. But that would come in time. Right now he needed a Hook and a Club. He had found that for the particular combination of amorality, desperation and intelligence he favored, there was no better place to troll than a poker room. And the only one that Phil really liked was in the Taj, largely because he liked Johnny Chan’s cameo in ROUNDERS. There was nothing like the symbolism of it since one of his main adversaries was also a sartorially creative Asian.
Of course the poker room had been redesigned since then, and was unrecognizable from it’s former iteration, but the spirit remained. And people could not resist the pull of tossing their chips along the same felt they had seen in big screen glory. Phil already had the Alexander suite on lockdown for the foreseeable future, so it was time to recruit.
The bulk of his army as it developed would be easily acquired through mental control or force, but he needed a lighter touch right now. The Hook would be his second and needed to be on board freely. It had been 8 hours since Phil first sat at the table, an amount of time barely worth noting at the poker table, but long enough that a sea of pretenders with thoughts of poker glory had managed to dump their chips to him. He hadn’t even had to manipulate the pathetic suckers. His advanced grasp of odds and lack of emotional investment in winning made him a God at these meager limits. But it was also here that unproven talent first showed itself.
When she sat down she did not immediately register as anything other than one more woman trying to walk the line between heartbreaker and whore. The media landscape had changed poker for women, and now many a young thing with thin hips and big tits threw on a hat and Garbo shades before trying to leverage cleavage into success.
But this one was different. She didn’t have the headphones grafted to her ears of someone who thought she was too good to pay attention. She watched the hands she wasn’t in. Acted decisively. Didn’t get upset when she lost a hand. Didn’t gloat when she won. And she won a lot. She also seemed to stay out of hands that Phil contested. They’d had no particular clashes, but her instincts to avoid the other predator at the table were keen.
A hand finally arose that gave Phil a chance to trap her. He’d flopped a straight flush against her presumed quads by the river. He let her take the lead the whole way, and hoped that his sudden gigantic bet at the end would entice her curiosity and bring all her money to him. Then when she left desperate and reeling from the terrible beat he would recruit her.
Except that she made a nearly clairvoyant fold. And then she left the table without a glance back at the competition.
Phil had found his Hook.
He just needed to find a puppy to seal the deal.
The Trump Taj Mahal. A perfect spot to begin. Phil would need an army for the coming fight. But that would come in time. Right now he needed a Hook and a Club. He had found that for the particular combination of amorality, desperation and intelligence he favored, there was no better place to troll than a poker room. And the only one that Phil really liked was in the Taj, largely because he liked Johnny Chan’s cameo in ROUNDERS. There was nothing like the symbolism of it since one of his main adversaries was also a sartorially creative Asian.
Of course the poker room had been redesigned since then, and was unrecognizable from it’s former iteration, but the spirit remained. And people could not resist the pull of tossing their chips along the same felt they had seen in big screen glory. Phil already had the Alexander suite on lockdown for the foreseeable future, so it was time to recruit.
The bulk of his army as it developed would be easily acquired through mental control or force, but he needed a lighter touch right now. The Hook would be his second and needed to be on board freely. It had been 8 hours since Phil first sat at the table, an amount of time barely worth noting at the poker table, but long enough that a sea of pretenders with thoughts of poker glory had managed to dump their chips to him. He hadn’t even had to manipulate the pathetic suckers. His advanced grasp of odds and lack of emotional investment in winning made him a God at these meager limits. But it was also here that unproven talent first showed itself.
When she sat down she did not immediately register as anything other than one more woman trying to walk the line between heartbreaker and whore. The media landscape had changed poker for women, and now many a young thing with thin hips and big tits threw on a hat and Garbo shades before trying to leverage cleavage into success.
But this one was different. She didn’t have the headphones grafted to her ears of someone who thought she was too good to pay attention. She watched the hands she wasn’t in. Acted decisively. Didn’t get upset when she lost a hand. Didn’t gloat when she won. And she won a lot. She also seemed to stay out of hands that Phil contested. They’d had no particular clashes, but her instincts to avoid the other predator at the table were keen.
A hand finally arose that gave Phil a chance to trap her. He’d flopped a straight flush against her presumed quads by the river. He let her take the lead the whole way, and hoped that his sudden gigantic bet at the end would entice her curiosity and bring all her money to him. Then when she left desperate and reeling from the terrible beat he would recruit her.
Except that she made a nearly clairvoyant fold. And then she left the table without a glance back at the competition.
Phil had found his Hook.
He just needed to find a puppy to seal the deal.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Day 5 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Today was a challenge, because I'm introducing my villain, and you always want to have a memorable entrance for a villain. It had me staring at a blank screen for quite awhile, but ultimately I think it's the people who don't make a big deal out of the fact that they're dangerous that ultimately creeps me out the most. Plus I have to remind myself this is a first draft. Just write for now and worry about fixing things later!
Chapter 2
Phil smiled.
The cool breeze off the Atlantic City boardwalk salted his face and brought with it the promise of rain. It seemed appropriate since Phil was to bring a storm to the world. He was in no rush. He’d waited far too long for that. But the new Messenger, the lost soul named Mickelson had started to find his way.
Phil couldn’t explain how he knew, but the first crossing had happened, and that meant it was time to start what could only be called a realignment.
“Hey, need some help with anything?”
The salesgirl broke him from his reverie, her lithe, tan body laced into an orange bikini with a flowing overshirt proclaiming “Ask Me And I Might.” It was still so bizarre, even after eons amongst them, how unaware of danger, how blissfully self-involved humans were. Especially the young ones. The ripe ones.
“I might need a date tonight,” he said.
The girl laughed. Phil loved that sound of service workers laughing. So sincere on the surface. So filled with hate and disgust in truth. Her smile was wide. Her eyes were dead.
“Aw, if only I didn‘t have to work all night, but I can help you pick out a t-shirt that’ll make you look hot. How‘re your abs.”
Phil lifted his shirt and gave the vaguely interested girl a peek at his toned midsection. Tastes changed, but one constant he’d found was that women could not resist wanting to touch a sculpted stomach. It seemed to strike a primal chord like dark chocolate and cute shoes.
“Nice.”
“So how about that date?”
Even though Phil’s actual age defied comprehension in this world, he looked like nothing more than another horny college kid.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Phil could have taken her. With no more effort than brushing away a fly. He could have scrambled her brain, made her dump all her money at one of the casinos littered along the Boardwalk, or had her start a new career in a poorly hidden massage parlors. But today was a good day. A day full of portent and Phil wanted to share the delight he felt.
“Look at me young one.”
She did. He traced a symbol on the palm of her left hand.
“Go home. Place your hand on your boyfriend’s forehead. You will fuck. You will both share with total honesty everything you have ever wanted to try, and you will try it all. No matter how long it takes, you will fulfill every fantasy that either of you has ever had. You will take breaks as needed, only for your favorite meals. Anytime you eat it will be a feast, and you will dine on all of your favorites. Once you have fully sated your appetites the two of you will fall asleep in each others arms until the next day break.
Then you will go out to the ocean, and swim together as far as you can until you drown. This will be the most peaceful and happy you have ever felt.”
The girl looked at her hand with gratitude.
“Thank you.”
As she walked off Phil went the other direction, whistling a happy tune. There was work to be done.
Chapter 2
Phil smiled.
The cool breeze off the Atlantic City boardwalk salted his face and brought with it the promise of rain. It seemed appropriate since Phil was to bring a storm to the world. He was in no rush. He’d waited far too long for that. But the new Messenger, the lost soul named Mickelson had started to find his way.
Phil couldn’t explain how he knew, but the first crossing had happened, and that meant it was time to start what could only be called a realignment.
“Hey, need some help with anything?”
The salesgirl broke him from his reverie, her lithe, tan body laced into an orange bikini with a flowing overshirt proclaiming “Ask Me And I Might.” It was still so bizarre, even after eons amongst them, how unaware of danger, how blissfully self-involved humans were. Especially the young ones. The ripe ones.
“I might need a date tonight,” he said.
The girl laughed. Phil loved that sound of service workers laughing. So sincere on the surface. So filled with hate and disgust in truth. Her smile was wide. Her eyes were dead.
“Aw, if only I didn‘t have to work all night, but I can help you pick out a t-shirt that’ll make you look hot. How‘re your abs.”
Phil lifted his shirt and gave the vaguely interested girl a peek at his toned midsection. Tastes changed, but one constant he’d found was that women could not resist wanting to touch a sculpted stomach. It seemed to strike a primal chord like dark chocolate and cute shoes.
“Nice.”
“So how about that date?”
Even though Phil’s actual age defied comprehension in this world, he looked like nothing more than another horny college kid.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Phil could have taken her. With no more effort than brushing away a fly. He could have scrambled her brain, made her dump all her money at one of the casinos littered along the Boardwalk, or had her start a new career in a poorly hidden massage parlors. But today was a good day. A day full of portent and Phil wanted to share the delight he felt.
“Look at me young one.”
She did. He traced a symbol on the palm of her left hand.
“Go home. Place your hand on your boyfriend’s forehead. You will fuck. You will both share with total honesty everything you have ever wanted to try, and you will try it all. No matter how long it takes, you will fulfill every fantasy that either of you has ever had. You will take breaks as needed, only for your favorite meals. Anytime you eat it will be a feast, and you will dine on all of your favorites. Once you have fully sated your appetites the two of you will fall asleep in each others arms until the next day break.
Then you will go out to the ocean, and swim together as far as you can until you drown. This will be the most peaceful and happy you have ever felt.”
The girl looked at her hand with gratitude.
“Thank you.”
As she walked off Phil went the other direction, whistling a happy tune. There was work to be done.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Day 4 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Day 4 - Vapors (novel chunk)
In Stephen King's ON WRITING, which I just finished, he makes it clear that he believes the first draft should be a strictly behind closed doors project. I think in the future that's excellent advice that I shall take, but I've already committed to posting publicly for the purposes of this project so anyone who cares to read will get to see inside the process as it unfolds. Guaranteed the results will not always be pretty.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
I open my eyes and see Reginald’s shinning smile welcome me back to consciousness. Think I may have to add some petticoats to my wardrobe if I’m gonna keep passing out every few minutes. I suppose I should be more nonplussed by the current turn of events, including the fact that I do not appear to be in what one would think of as the real world right now. But I’m not. The brain is a funny thing, and all that mine can focus on at the moment is the ever-growing realization that my world is expanding in ways that I can’t yet comprehend.
One surprising comfort is Reginald. Despite the suspect circumstances of our acquaintance, I sense I can trust him. Trust feels like a warm blanket given that I also have a new found awareness of an undefined, deadly enemy out there. If it all seems hyperbolic then I can’t be faulted for that. Nothing to be done if the elephant in the room is actually an elephant, other than deal with the unlikely reality of it.
“Reginald, nice to meet you.”
“Oh, we’ve known each other for years, Mick.”
“Really.”
“Yes. But don’t worry, I know you don’t know.”
“OK. What do I know?” I asked.
Reginald smiled. “Not much I’m afraid. At least not in your current form. But we’ll work on that later. Right now we need to get you back to your body before Phil finds you empty.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“Y’know that yellowy awfulness that was messing around with your heartbeat?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Phil.”
“Seems like he should have a scarier name.”
“It’s really just a representation anyway. Wisps of the truth are all you’re going to be able to grasp until you’re ready. And trust me, Phil’s plenty scary no matter what you call him. And very bad news if we don’t get you back before he finds you.
“Back to my body.”
“Yeah, you’re essentially astral right now. It’s not exactly accurate, but it gets the idea across.”
“So this is a dream?”
“More like a conscious dream state. Ish.”
“Ish?”
“Well, you’re pretty far behind the eight ball, so there’s no easy way to get you up to speed. Your life is gonna get a lot harder. Fast.”
“Great.”
“Now the first thing you need to do is imagine your body in better shape.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’ll face a lot of dangers soon, many of them physical. And you’re not in the best of shape. You can restitch yourself in this state. Give yourself some advantages for the coming fight.”
“This is crazy.”
“I know. But I’ll guide you as best I can. Now visualize yourself. Nothing outlandish or your body will reject it. Just strong, healthy, immune system unstoppable, flexibility and reactions near super human. Stamina for days. Fix it in your mind.”
“OK.”
“Good. Now look over here.”
“I don’t feel any different.
“You won’t at first. Now look at the wall.”
I look over and see the vapors. But this time instead of catching glimpses of an unknown world, I see clearly, and what I see is my body and Julie’s on the floor in my apartment. It’s weird, because we look dead. Like a double homicide and I’m the ghost left over to try and figure out what happened.
“You’ll learn better ways later, but the best way to get back to your body right now is physical shock.”
“What do I do?”
“You make Julie slap you. Hard.”
“What?”
“It’s why she’s the vessel. She’s locked inside herself right now, and you’ll need to release her once you return, but for now you can use her body, like a dummy. Make it slap you.”
I look across the chasm of vapors and concentrate on her hand. With less effort than I expected I make it clench into a fist.
“That is so cool,” I say.
“Gently now, try to move her toward you.”
Again I focus, but trying to figure out the sequence of coordinated movements necessary for full body manipulation results in her jerking about like a string puppet. It scares me.
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Don’t try to control each movement. Think of an action and push her body to fulfill the movement you want.”
I imagine Julie crawling over to me, hauling back and slapping the ever living shit out of me. There’s a delay, but as I fix the image in my mind her body begins to respond. Soon she is copying what I want. It is a stilted motion that makes me wonder briefly if this is not the genesis of zombie stories. But before I can spend much time on the thought her arm cracks across my face, and in what I can only describe as a whoosh, I find myself on the floor of my apartment, eyes open, cheek stinging. Life apparently altered forever.
I really wish Julie wasn’t collapsed in a heap like that.
In Stephen King's ON WRITING, which I just finished, he makes it clear that he believes the first draft should be a strictly behind closed doors project. I think in the future that's excellent advice that I shall take, but I've already committed to posting publicly for the purposes of this project so anyone who cares to read will get to see inside the process as it unfolds. Guaranteed the results will not always be pretty.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
I open my eyes and see Reginald’s shinning smile welcome me back to consciousness. Think I may have to add some petticoats to my wardrobe if I’m gonna keep passing out every few minutes. I suppose I should be more nonplussed by the current turn of events, including the fact that I do not appear to be in what one would think of as the real world right now. But I’m not. The brain is a funny thing, and all that mine can focus on at the moment is the ever-growing realization that my world is expanding in ways that I can’t yet comprehend.
One surprising comfort is Reginald. Despite the suspect circumstances of our acquaintance, I sense I can trust him. Trust feels like a warm blanket given that I also have a new found awareness of an undefined, deadly enemy out there. If it all seems hyperbolic then I can’t be faulted for that. Nothing to be done if the elephant in the room is actually an elephant, other than deal with the unlikely reality of it.
“Reginald, nice to meet you.”
“Oh, we’ve known each other for years, Mick.”
“Really.”
“Yes. But don’t worry, I know you don’t know.”
“OK. What do I know?” I asked.
Reginald smiled. “Not much I’m afraid. At least not in your current form. But we’ll work on that later. Right now we need to get you back to your body before Phil finds you empty.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“Y’know that yellowy awfulness that was messing around with your heartbeat?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Phil.”
“Seems like he should have a scarier name.”
“It’s really just a representation anyway. Wisps of the truth are all you’re going to be able to grasp until you’re ready. And trust me, Phil’s plenty scary no matter what you call him. And very bad news if we don’t get you back before he finds you.
“Back to my body.”
“Yeah, you’re essentially astral right now. It’s not exactly accurate, but it gets the idea across.”
“So this is a dream?”
“More like a conscious dream state. Ish.”
“Ish?”
“Well, you’re pretty far behind the eight ball, so there’s no easy way to get you up to speed. Your life is gonna get a lot harder. Fast.”
“Great.”
“Now the first thing you need to do is imagine your body in better shape.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’ll face a lot of dangers soon, many of them physical. And you’re not in the best of shape. You can restitch yourself in this state. Give yourself some advantages for the coming fight.”
“This is crazy.”
“I know. But I’ll guide you as best I can. Now visualize yourself. Nothing outlandish or your body will reject it. Just strong, healthy, immune system unstoppable, flexibility and reactions near super human. Stamina for days. Fix it in your mind.”
“OK.”
“Good. Now look over here.”
“I don’t feel any different.
“You won’t at first. Now look at the wall.”
I look over and see the vapors. But this time instead of catching glimpses of an unknown world, I see clearly, and what I see is my body and Julie’s on the floor in my apartment. It’s weird, because we look dead. Like a double homicide and I’m the ghost left over to try and figure out what happened.
“You’ll learn better ways later, but the best way to get back to your body right now is physical shock.”
“What do I do?”
“You make Julie slap you. Hard.”
“What?”
“It’s why she’s the vessel. She’s locked inside herself right now, and you’ll need to release her once you return, but for now you can use her body, like a dummy. Make it slap you.”
I look across the chasm of vapors and concentrate on her hand. With less effort than I expected I make it clench into a fist.
“That is so cool,” I say.
“Gently now, try to move her toward you.”
Again I focus, but trying to figure out the sequence of coordinated movements necessary for full body manipulation results in her jerking about like a string puppet. It scares me.
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Don’t try to control each movement. Think of an action and push her body to fulfill the movement you want.”
I imagine Julie crawling over to me, hauling back and slapping the ever living shit out of me. There’s a delay, but as I fix the image in my mind her body begins to respond. Soon she is copying what I want. It is a stilted motion that makes me wonder briefly if this is not the genesis of zombie stories. But before I can spend much time on the thought her arm cracks across my face, and in what I can only describe as a whoosh, I find myself on the floor of my apartment, eyes open, cheek stinging. Life apparently altered forever.
I really wish Julie wasn’t collapsed in a heap like that.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Day 3 - Vapors (Novel chunk)
Day 3 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Today was a little intimidating because I had to face up to the fact that I started writing without a clear sense of where this is going. It feels a little adrift, and a little exciting. I ended up thinking a lot about the novel I'm embarking on over the last 24 hours, and have some clear themes, situations and ideas coming together.
Zoba had seen three of the yellow mornings in his countless millenia. They always spoke of the same thing. Death. Murder. Of course these were events of the human world, not his treasured Alcyia, but no matter the willful ignorance that some embraced even on this plane of existence, there had always been, would always be some crossover.
But despite the rarity of the sky’s brittle parchment this daybreak, one thing made it rarer still. The Spot. A dark, rooted speck that Zoba could not fix with his gaze, but could not extinguish from his peripheral. It spoke of intent. Premeditation. It indicated that a plan was forming to alter Alcyia from idyllic to a place of rage, violence, conflict. Zoba would investigate. That was his destiny. But for the first time in his existence, he thought of the path ahead, and felt fear lace his belly.
What. The. Fuck.
OK, when you feel your body dissolving it’s a bit disorienting. Like one of those massage chairs decided to teach you a lesson for spending too much time in Sharper Image and never buying a damn thing.
Consciousness gets a little hazy, which is actually preferable to sharing headspace with some phantom named Zoba. Zoba? And that was some dread filled, freak me right the fuck out, please let me wake up type nonsense right there. And so I wake up and…
What the fuck?
I’ve never been in an old timey cinema. Don’t go to retrospectives of Chaplin, or Fellini, but whatever the first people sat in to check out the miracle of the first moving pictures was, I guess this is how my head thinks it would look. Minus Julie, which is a bummer. Straight backed wooden chairs aligned mostly even, with a projector stashed in the back of the room and a glorified bed sheet spread across the wall as a screen. For some reason my mind jumps to one of those hotel investigations where they shine a blacklight on the bed linens and I feel a mixture of sick and silly imagining what splices of DNA my movie presentation might contain.
The lights go out and I’m expecting the screen to flicker to life, but instead it explodes with color, sound, truly immersive IMAX 3-D assault my senses, holy crap do they have hologram tech now, import. I don’t even know that I’m seeing so much as experiencing this kaleidoscope of wtf’edness. Colors so vibrant I can smell them, vibrations that seem to rock and wreck my core, this deep sense of connection and isolation all at once and then…the faintest shade of weak tea.
It’s not weak though. It’s alive. It moves. Slithers. Yearns. I feel my heart begin to slow, but I can’t look away. I’ve been bored, irritated, angry, dissatisfied most of my life, but this, this is wrong.
Whatever this sense of impermanent color exudes, it is my enemy, the enemy of everything, and I am filled with an urge to find it. And kill it.
My heart slows further.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Thump.
thump.
A hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me back from the maw. My skin is cold. I gasp for breath and feel like fire lights up my core. I leap out of my chair. Feels like I almost hit my head on the damned ceiling. Careen is probably a fair description of my body’s movement as I search for purchase. This is all too much. The images, the dream, the drug. Where the hell is Julie? Where the hell am I?! What in the name of Ray Bradbury was that milquetoast bouquet of doom I just stared down.
And who’s the skinny Asian guy in a Zoot suit who I think just saved my life?
“Hey Mick. I’m Reginald.”
“I thought you’d be black,” I admit.
Reginald smiles.
I puke, and pass out at his feet.
Today was a little intimidating because I had to face up to the fact that I started writing without a clear sense of where this is going. It feels a little adrift, and a little exciting. I ended up thinking a lot about the novel I'm embarking on over the last 24 hours, and have some clear themes, situations and ideas coming together.
Zoba had seen three of the yellow mornings in his countless millenia. They always spoke of the same thing. Death. Murder. Of course these were events of the human world, not his treasured Alcyia, but no matter the willful ignorance that some embraced even on this plane of existence, there had always been, would always be some crossover.
But despite the rarity of the sky’s brittle parchment this daybreak, one thing made it rarer still. The Spot. A dark, rooted speck that Zoba could not fix with his gaze, but could not extinguish from his peripheral. It spoke of intent. Premeditation. It indicated that a plan was forming to alter Alcyia from idyllic to a place of rage, violence, conflict. Zoba would investigate. That was his destiny. But for the first time in his existence, he thought of the path ahead, and felt fear lace his belly.
What. The. Fuck.
OK, when you feel your body dissolving it’s a bit disorienting. Like one of those massage chairs decided to teach you a lesson for spending too much time in Sharper Image and never buying a damn thing.
Consciousness gets a little hazy, which is actually preferable to sharing headspace with some phantom named Zoba. Zoba? And that was some dread filled, freak me right the fuck out, please let me wake up type nonsense right there. And so I wake up and…
What the fuck?
I’ve never been in an old timey cinema. Don’t go to retrospectives of Chaplin, or Fellini, but whatever the first people sat in to check out the miracle of the first moving pictures was, I guess this is how my head thinks it would look. Minus Julie, which is a bummer. Straight backed wooden chairs aligned mostly even, with a projector stashed in the back of the room and a glorified bed sheet spread across the wall as a screen. For some reason my mind jumps to one of those hotel investigations where they shine a blacklight on the bed linens and I feel a mixture of sick and silly imagining what splices of DNA my movie presentation might contain.
The lights go out and I’m expecting the screen to flicker to life, but instead it explodes with color, sound, truly immersive IMAX 3-D assault my senses, holy crap do they have hologram tech now, import. I don’t even know that I’m seeing so much as experiencing this kaleidoscope of wtf’edness. Colors so vibrant I can smell them, vibrations that seem to rock and wreck my core, this deep sense of connection and isolation all at once and then…the faintest shade of weak tea.
It’s not weak though. It’s alive. It moves. Slithers. Yearns. I feel my heart begin to slow, but I can’t look away. I’ve been bored, irritated, angry, dissatisfied most of my life, but this, this is wrong.
Whatever this sense of impermanent color exudes, it is my enemy, the enemy of everything, and I am filled with an urge to find it. And kill it.
My heart slows further.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Thump.
thump.
A hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me back from the maw. My skin is cold. I gasp for breath and feel like fire lights up my core. I leap out of my chair. Feels like I almost hit my head on the damned ceiling. Careen is probably a fair description of my body’s movement as I search for purchase. This is all too much. The images, the dream, the drug. Where the hell is Julie? Where the hell am I?! What in the name of Ray Bradbury was that milquetoast bouquet of doom I just stared down.
And who’s the skinny Asian guy in a Zoot suit who I think just saved my life?
“Hey Mick. I’m Reginald.”
“I thought you’d be black,” I admit.
Reginald smiles.
I puke, and pass out at his feet.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Day 2 - Vapors (novel chunk)
Day 2 - VAPORS (con't)
Today's entry was an interesting one, because after reading yesterday's post my wife asked if Julie and Mickelson were going to have sex. I told her I didn't know. Also worth noting that I'm working on getting some cleaner formatting, but that is not the point of this, so is a secondary concern.
There’s a particular way she cocks her hip that slays me, and that hip cock is in full force right now. I look, she knows it. Grin. Slight stumble and in she comes.
“What’s up?”
She doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t bother to. Stalks to the kitchen and grabs a soda out of my fridge. My last one. She loves to take my last one. I flop down on the patchwork couch I saved from rats and panhandlers outside my walkup. I like it. It’s almost as tired as I am, and it gives Julie plenty of room to ply me, or stay away. She sits at the opposite end - staying away for now.
“You think when we’re 60 we’ll still be single, still messing around, still, y’know…”
“Who cares.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says.
Conversation isn’t usually our thing. It’s good enough to get us to the humping, but otherwise can get pretty morose, and boring. My hand inches towards the remote. SportsCenter is good for edging her out, or forcing the issue.
“Something weird happened tonight.”
“What?”
“Y’know a guy named Reginald?”
“Does any one actually know a guy named Reginald?”
“I thought he was probably full of it, but he seems to know you…and me.”
“What happened?”
It’s hard to explain what exactly happens, why the fog lifts sometimes for me, but there are times when I feel my whole body, my whole self get, interested. You can tell me about the kitten you couldn‘t save from a drain pipe, or the girl whose lack of resistance didn’t register as a no in college, or even the beatings you let deadbeat lay on you under the spell of whatever anti-depressant was supposed to fix you. I’ll respond in whatever way seems like it’s what you want.
But sometimes, hiking a stretch of the Appalachian Trail, or watching an old man get too close to a young waitress, I’m suddenly invested. Emotionally. Like a vintage toy with the seal removed.
“I’m just chilling at the bar at Parcil’s, being ignored by Tammy as usual while I’m trying to get a refill.”
“What were you drinking tonight?”
“Martini. Shut up. So I’m about to tell the bitch to fuck off and learn how to do her goddamn job without being a goddamn bitch about everything when this dude with a very nice Omega framing his very nice forearm puts a drink down in front of me.”
“Nothing like getting roofied.”
“I’ve had worse. Anyway, he asks if I’m your friend. I’m like, sure as fuck. I love that kid! So then he pulls out these.”
Julie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out two tabs that fall somewhere between communion wafers and pepto bismol. I sit up and move toward her. The low rises she is sporting are exposing nearly as much as they cover and my hand naturally rests well below the small of her back. She smells really good tonight. Like raspberries. I usually think it’s too much. Tonight it’s comfort food.
“And?”
She’s blushing now. Always happens when we get to the doorstep. She’s fucked more guys than she can count, been that chick that does what the other girls don’t, but she’s a romantic at heart. Always turns into Princess Buttercup before the first kiss. Then she turns into a succubus.
“And he said we should take these together and your world will change forever.”
My hand encircles her waist. I feel like a boa ready to feed.
“My world? What’s in it for you?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Well, what the hell are they?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said I will be the vessel that allows a great awakening.”
“Kinky.” My lips move to her neck,
“And he said we shouldn’t have sex.” Julie stands up. Beautiful view. Denial of access. Bad turn of events.
“Well that sucks, I’m pretty turned on here.”
It’s not like me to admit that sort of thing, but honesty can do in a pinch. And she’s got me amped up like one of those ‘roid beasts on the cover of a romance novel.
“Me too, but that part seemed important.”
The way she grabs some ice and tosses it at my lap seems premeditated.
“OK, so we’re not having sex. We should just take some drug that a total stranger gave you in a bar under weird fucking circumstances then?”
“I think so. What‘s the worst that could happen?”
Too obvious to detail. But I’m pissed and I need this energy to culminate in an activity.
“OK, fine.”
“Good.”
Julie hands me one of the tabs and we both take them. Simple as that. The best and worst ideas often germinate with a distinct lack of hoopla. Nothing sinister about the slight, sweet taste of the wafer going down. I was less aplomb when Julie fell to the floor seconds later.
I didn’t have time to react though, before I dissolved
There’s a particular way she cocks her hip that slays me, and that hip cock is in full force right now. I look, she knows it. Grin. Slight stumble and in she comes.
“What’s up?”
She doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t bother to. Stalks to the kitchen and grabs a soda out of my fridge. My last one. She loves to take my last one. I flop down on the patchwork couch I saved from rats and panhandlers outside my walkup. I like it. It’s almost as tired as I am, and it gives Julie plenty of room to ply me, or stay away. She sits at the opposite end - staying away for now.
“You think when we’re 60 we’ll still be single, still messing around, still, y’know…”
“Who cares.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says.
Conversation isn’t usually our thing. It’s good enough to get us to the humping, but otherwise can get pretty morose, and boring. My hand inches towards the remote. SportsCenter is good for edging her out, or forcing the issue.
“Something weird happened tonight.”
“What?”
“Y’know a guy named Reginald?”
“Does any one actually know a guy named Reginald?”
“I thought he was probably full of it, but he seems to know you…and me.”
“What happened?”
It’s hard to explain what exactly happens, why the fog lifts sometimes for me, but there are times when I feel my whole body, my whole self get, interested. You can tell me about the kitten you couldn‘t save from a drain pipe, or the girl whose lack of resistance didn’t register as a no in college, or even the beatings you let deadbeat lay on you under the spell of whatever anti-depressant was supposed to fix you. I’ll respond in whatever way seems like it’s what you want.
But sometimes, hiking a stretch of the Appalachian Trail, or watching an old man get too close to a young waitress, I’m suddenly invested. Emotionally. Like a vintage toy with the seal removed.
“I’m just chilling at the bar at Parcil’s, being ignored by Tammy as usual while I’m trying to get a refill.”
“What were you drinking tonight?”
“Martini. Shut up. So I’m about to tell the bitch to fuck off and learn how to do her goddamn job without being a goddamn bitch about everything when this dude with a very nice Omega framing his very nice forearm puts a drink down in front of me.”
“Nothing like getting roofied.”
“I’ve had worse. Anyway, he asks if I’m your friend. I’m like, sure as fuck. I love that kid! So then he pulls out these.”
Julie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out two tabs that fall somewhere between communion wafers and pepto bismol. I sit up and move toward her. The low rises she is sporting are exposing nearly as much as they cover and my hand naturally rests well below the small of her back. She smells really good tonight. Like raspberries. I usually think it’s too much. Tonight it’s comfort food.
“And?”
She’s blushing now. Always happens when we get to the doorstep. She’s fucked more guys than she can count, been that chick that does what the other girls don’t, but she’s a romantic at heart. Always turns into Princess Buttercup before the first kiss. Then she turns into a succubus.
“And he said we should take these together and your world will change forever.”
My hand encircles her waist. I feel like a boa ready to feed.
“My world? What’s in it for you?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Well, what the hell are they?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said I will be the vessel that allows a great awakening.”
“Kinky.” My lips move to her neck,
“And he said we shouldn’t have sex.” Julie stands up. Beautiful view. Denial of access. Bad turn of events.
“Well that sucks, I’m pretty turned on here.”
It’s not like me to admit that sort of thing, but honesty can do in a pinch. And she’s got me amped up like one of those ‘roid beasts on the cover of a romance novel.
“Me too, but that part seemed important.”
The way she grabs some ice and tosses it at my lap seems premeditated.
“OK, so we’re not having sex. We should just take some drug that a total stranger gave you in a bar under weird fucking circumstances then?”
“I think so. What‘s the worst that could happen?”
Too obvious to detail. But I’m pissed and I need this energy to culminate in an activity.
“OK, fine.”
“Good.”
Julie hands me one of the tabs and we both take them. Simple as that. The best and worst ideas often germinate with a distinct lack of hoopla. Nothing sinister about the slight, sweet taste of the wafer going down. I was less aplomb when Julie fell to the floor seconds later.
I didn’t have time to react though, before I dissolved
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Day 1 - Vapors (novel chunk)
DAY 1 - VAPORS (to avoid spending all my time fixing formatting, entries will be in block text)
I’ve felt the vapors for as long as I can remember. I wish sometimes that I could control them, these wavy daydreams that transport me to an alternate time whenever I get bored, or tired, or stuck in a conversation I want no part of - like now. The Gorgon is spewing words at me and I’m just trying to escape.
Despite the moniker my generally unkind brain has saddled her with, The Gorgon is actually quite pretty in the disposable fashion that men of status like to have on their arm. She’s slim, but with enough curve to fill out a sports bra and yoga pants in a way that causes a reaction in those who would be interested. Jealously in those who aren’t. Her face is pristine, blank, non-offensive. It lacks character, but so does she. It’s possible she’s been hamstrung by the misconception that being wanted is the same as having value, but I can’t feel any sympathy for her about that. Everyone has their cross to bear.
What I find most annoying is that once she has fixed you with her gaze you are stuck. Like stone. Trying to get away from her once she’s decided to share her latest drama is a near impossibility. Oh, and it’s worth noting that this is especially painful since her breath reminds me of gorgonzola cheese. Despite the fortunate nickname dovetail that provides, it really is a fucking bummer sitting there with eyes watering, hearing about how on-again/off-again boyfriend is on-again.
It’s a waterfall of blather … “I know better…” , “He’s so sweet, though…”, “I think I can trust him …”, “If he’s gonna act like a jackass then I’ll…”
I might be angry if I was more invested in my life. But I’m 30, and I’m a customer service rep, and I don’t see anything getting much more exciting than that anytime soon, so I let her ramble as my gaze crosses the wavy screen that coalesces from the small, transparent spots that always harbor at the corner of my vision. If I concentrate I can see some things more clearly, but when I concentrate it’s obvious to anyone around me, so in a situation like this it’s all peripheral. Sometimes It’s flashes. Sometimes it’s whirls, or strips, or like oil bleeding through a canvas.
Today I see Him, it’s always Him, and He’s being hollowed again - at least that’s how I’ve come to think of it. He is fixed in place, and the colors in Him dull, while those surrounding seem to vibrate and brighten. Sometimes they threaten to cross the vapors, but never do. I’ve tried to give him a name, but have found myself unable to do so.
My name is Mickelson. And this is my life.
I hate work, but it doesn’t haunt me when I’m not there. I suppose I am a case of wasted potential, but I find I’d rather not care than care. I’m not sure why. I like the idea of love, and spiritual enlightenment, and being kind to others, but those concepts seem like far off ideals rather than living, breathing possibilities in my existence. Occasionally I’m inspired to make a change, dedicate myself to capturing and exploring my full power, or whatever, but that only lasts til the next beer, or the knock on my door that’s coming in 3,2...
KNOCK, KNOCK. Told ya.
It’s 12am, so Julie’s here.
I open the door and she’s leaning against the frame, Misfits t-shirt sliding near off her shoulder and pants low enough to show she’s unencumbered by panties, and hasn’t shaved in the last few days. She’s got that alley cat look that a meaner person would call slutty, and a nicer person would call, lonely, but I just think of as tiring. I don’t want her, but can’t resist her either. We’re like decaying stars in orbit, just waiting for a final collapse to end the both of us. Until then, we continue to dance.
“Sss’up, sssexy,” she slurs. Drunk. Sometimes she drinks, sometimes she doesn’t. Most times she does.
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